Page 82 of A Love Song for Dreamers

I have my best friend, the woman who makes me feel more alive than I’ve everfelt.

I hate letting go of her hand when I drive her to theairport.

Watching her walk away is a million timesharder.

I stay at LAX, staring at the departures level until someone honks loudly from behind and I eventually pullout.

On the way back to my place, I roll down thewindows.

When I thought of being in LA, staring at the ocean, I dreamed of freedom, but now the air feels colder, and I’m left thinking freedom never felt so lonelybefore.

19

There’snothing like having professionals read—and sing—your script, especially if it’s the first time you’ve heard it outloud.

The SoHo loft is chic and spacious by New York standards. It’s still cozy with eight of us sitting in a circle, chairs from the table and stools from the bar pulled around so we’re all facing eachother.

I’ve always loved the tradition of a reading. It’s like being on stage, nerve-wracking and thrilling at once. It’s not unlike reading my poem in front of Carly, though the stakes are much higher. It’s personal because my work ispersonal.

I sit back, pull the pencil from behind my ear, and tap it lightly against my leg as the actors sight-read asong.

The dark-haired woman singing the lead stumbles over a part of the chorus—partly because it’s tricky and partly because everyone’s flagging a bit after three hours of working on thisshow.

I hold up a hand. “Let me fix that. Ten-minutebreak?”

Everyone nods, and I scribble the change I want on her version on the book. If it works, I’ll put it into my version, themaster.

When I finish, I check my phone. Sure enough, there’s a message from my writingpartner.

Miranda:How’s the readinggoing?

Annie:A few rough spots. I’ll keep you posted. How are youfeeling?

Miranda:My body’s rebelling. Have a drink forme.

My throat closes up.Her chemo started this week, and she wanted to come today, but I told her to take care ofherself.

It’s another reminder of how much is riding onthis.

A drink appears at my shoulder, and I lookup.

“You need a break too,” comes a kind, masculinevoice.

Jeffrey is tall and pushing sixty-five, with a receding hairline and sharp blue eyes. After reviewing the information on the funders, I knew he was my best chance. The man has three granddaughters and a history of seeing potential in unusualprojects.

“This is amazing,” I tell him. “Thank you for being so receptive when I asked if we could move the reading to your place. I know Ian usuallyhosts.”

“My pleasure. Can’t let him have all the fun. Besides, your pitch waspersuasive.”

“That’s a kind way of saying I showed up at your office unannounced and sang you one of thesongs.”

His smile is gentle, but his eyes sparkle as he nods toward the balcony. “Let’s step outside. It’s a nicenight.”

I follow him out, and he pulls the door shut afterus.

“My first musical, we were workshopping it for months,” he says under his breath. “Ran three years off-Broadwayand—”

“Ten years on it,” Ifinish.

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